


sleepless in new york

by djemso



Series: with the dawn a new day is born [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Gen, Identity Issues, M/M, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djemso/pseuds/djemso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming home isn't as easy as walking in the door and everything is fine again. Especially if Bucky keeps putting his fist through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sleepless in new york

**Author's Note:**

> I'm heading away for a couple of weeks and instead of rushing through finishing a chapter of to live in black and white, I wrote a sequel to [that's all that I can do (but I'll remember)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2081595). I wanted to show that everything isn't wrapped up there, but that it's the beginning of the process of discovery and recovery and this was the next step. I tend not to write sex, but wanted to address that aspect of their relationship so hopefully, it all works. I kind of want to do one more, but we'll see after I finish the next tlibaw chapter after I get home. It's not beta-ed so all mistakes are my issue and the fault of writing at 2am on 3 hours sleep.

You've been living with Steve for two months. You are there to protect him, but you are the most consistent danger.

This is the third time in eleven days that the wall has needed re-plastering. It’s the second time the door has needed replacing. Neither are sturdy enough for your metal fist. There are neighbors on either side and a former SHIELD agent across the hall, so putting your fist in the wall is not ideal. The police have been called before.

It’s still better than putting your fist through Steve’s head. Some nights, you can’t tell the difference between the Steve's head and your nightmares.

It's better to hit the wall. 

 

* * *

 

There is a table of information about your current situation etching itself into your mind. Each memory or trigger is put in a diagram linking back to where and what you were when it happened. You don’t know what you are now, but you are beginning to grasp who you have been. You are still categorizing.

It occurs to you that you did this once as a means of remembering what was being scrubbed away, numbering memory so you would know that something had been forgotten but it had been a useless endeavor in the end.

You are the child who learned his charm did not work on nuns or his mother. You were a child of war, but your father came home. You are the protector of your sisters and one blonde boy who makes you crazy. You are an above average student, a sportsman and flirt so people like you. They are exasperated with you, but you get away with being a jerk.

You are Steve Rogers’ best friend and you don’t understand why no one see’s him the way you do. You are a dock worker in the summer heat. You live with Steve. You’re waiting to see if this winter will take him away. You’re in love and terrified of it.

You’re a soldier, a sniper, a sergeant and you've been seen out with half the best dames in Brooklyn because buddy, you can dance. You are a prisoner and you won’t let others die in your place. You’re on a slab with needles and pain for the first time. You are liberated and help with a little liberating of your own.

You are practicing in a bunker, perfect shot after perfect shot with ice in your veins that you can never tell anyone about. You are a commando. You’re a friend, a lover, sniper and pain in Peggy Carters perfectly shaped rear end.

You fell. You are a soldier. You sleep in the ice. You follow orders. You completed orders. You are wiped. Sleep. Orders. Complete. Wipe. You are lost.

You are found.

These all have one thing in common. All you ever wanted out of life was to take care of the people you love. You’re still trying and that’s why you have to leave. You are waking up trying to hurt Steve or keeping him awake with begging and screams that you cannot control. You need to figure out how to be a person again. How to be this new person. You have to leave now. He is healthy now, but won’t remain healthy if you stay. He’ll end up a blood stain on the carpet. It would tear you apart to kill him now. You wonder if Pierce knew that and took pleasure in the idea that if you survived, you would either never know what you’d done or that remembering would fucking kill you. Your hand curls. It wants revenge. 

You try to explain. You point to the broken walls. You’d point to Steve’s broken arm if it weren't already healed. You thought he was Zola. You couldn't breathe. You are sorry. 

“I’m dangerous,” You tell him. “I have to go somewhere I won’t hurt anyone.”

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Steve replies.

It takes you a few minutes to catch that he said ‘we’ and you remember that Steve is, above all things, a stubborn little punk and a sneak.

 

* * *

 

You don’t leave tomorrow.

It takes three days to move your things to New York. Sam doesn't come with you. This makes you feel something inside, something  sad. You've grown attached, but he has his own life here. Has his own shit to deal with. Steve promises to visit. You scope the best roofs to watch for enemy agents for when he does.

You are unconvinced by the building, but it takes you three attempts to break in and you are detected in record time when you do. It’s as safe as things will get for you. You still make the buildings computer assure you that if Steve were in danger, there were protocols in place to protect him. There is an alarm, a gas capable of knocking Steve unconscious and stronger reinforcements to all walls and windows. There is a god with a visitors pass.

You begrudgingly accept it as suitable.

 

* * *

 

You still can’t sleep for shit.

It helps to curl up on the couch, where it smells safe and familiar but you’re still only sleeping one in every three nights. Memories seep in like sludge when you sleep. They wear you down. You can comprehend what you've lost through watching them play out. You can comprehend why you are hated and feared. You dream mostly of the last couple of years. Your life as the hand of HYDRA, shaping the world to their needs. It was not your life, but if is your mind and your body that have to carry it. Barnes’ life from before feels like that some days too.

When you wake, you feel angry and afraid.

Sometimes, when you wake up, you don’t feel anything and can’t be anything until you slam back into your body and mind with such ferocity that you can’t breathe. Then you feel really fucking angry, but it’s mostly with yourself. HYDRA’s hate is crystallized and unwavering. If (when) they come, you will destroy them all.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Steve asks, more than once and on different days and times.

The answer is always no. It’s bad enough to have to dream about it without talking about it.

 

* * *

 

You don’t like Stark.

He talks too much. The chaos inside is hard enough to listen through without trying to figure out what the hell that man is trying to say. Even as things are shelves in their proper place, it’s too much to be around him. He spends all his time in laboratories and garages and workshops anyway. He maintains weapons but speaks like a man of peace. This is an attribute of HYDRA. You do not know if you should trust him.

Steve pushes you to be more social. You have to learn to function as a person in society again. It isn’t enough to care for him, dispatch threats him and make sure he eats right. You also have to be a full fledged person again. It’s never been a problem before, you can exist as a ghost but if Steve gave a shit enough to ask you, you’re going to try it. You owe him a debt. You love him, but you're not sure what means completely. Not yet.

You sit with Steve and Stark eating cereal in the communal area. Steve tries gracelessly to make you interact and a glare that sent men to their knees quivering appears to do nothing to Steve, aside from make him look pathetic enough that you want to try. He tries three subjects. Each one bombs. You watch Stark and he doesn't seem bothered.

“Let Terminator sit and glower in silence if he wants,” Stark says.

Stark then pokes at Steve with his cereal spoon when he doesn't look at him and before you know it, you've moved to take his arm away from Steve. It’s the metal one and Stark looks fascinated by it and the pressure of your fingers. You have not let him look before. You do not want to be maintained anymore. You want to exist.

Stark begins talking excitedly about adjustments to something and you let go. He doesn't stop talking, but he does disappear out of the door quickly while talking to the computer about re-calibrations. He’s not re-calibrating you. No one has that right. You know that now. You’ll fight them, even if they kill you.

Steve looks at you bemused, “What was he going to do to me with a spoon?”

“There are fourteen ways to kill you with that spoon,” You respond.

You  killed someone once, then took their eyes for pass coding with a spoon. You blurt this out to Steve, who gets very quiet again. “No one is going to kill me with a spoon, Buck.” He rolls his eyes at you, trying to restore equilibrium. “And Tony is trying to help you.”

“I didn't ask him to,” You put your bowl down into the washer.

You’re done with this conversation. You don’t want to owe anyone else anything. Your debts are too high as it is. You decide to go back to Steve’s floor where you do not have to see him look at you with pity. You wonder if you did that accidentally and now, this was turnaround. If so, a lot of people deserve to give you a head shot.

You almost do not catch Steve responding with, “I did.”

You ignore it. You keep walking.

 

* * *

 

The thing is. The thing with Steve? You are off balance. Things are warped.

In your mind, you can see every inch of flesh on him. You know the best places to touch for the best, hoarse whimpers of response and the most out of control squirming. You know where he’s ticklish. You know how he changed, from fearful of appearing weak to wanting to feel as if the world was no longer on his shoulders. You know how he loves being wrapped around and held, how to knock breath out of his lungs using only your mouth and the sparks that hit his eyes when you position just right. You know he’s beautiful, and you knew it when he didn't. He probably still doesn't realize how fucking gorgeous he really is.

It doesn't change that you do feel different. You’re metal, ice and sharp where you could once keep him warm. You feel more acutely broken around him.

You gave him one starved, desperate kiss after another that first night but could not find it in you to do it again afterwards. He didn't make a move to do it either. You can chalk his reaction up to shock. He was injured and you were there. It was nothing more.

You don’t really believe that.

It has to mean something, that you are now capable of lying to yourself but mostly it comes down to the fact you don’t want Steve to see you like this. You want him, but you don't want him to see you or touch you. You don’t want him to see every scar and have him wonder who lost their life giving you it. You don’t want him to see the scar tissue on your shoulder where he once grabbed for your hand and you fell away. You know it’ll cause him pain. You don’t want to hurt him.

You don’t want to admit to him that you don’t remember the last time you got hard. Giving that you can’t seem to remember the last time you showered either and you know it was the last couple of days, that probably doesn't say much. But the thought lingers. What if that’s just something else that was taken from you? What happens if you can’t do that anymore?

Soft brushes of lips to face and hands are better than finding out you can’t have anything more, once you've already began to want it.

 

* * *

 

You do not remember falling asleep.

You’re laying on couch cushions, a makeshift fort you built today as memories of playing pirates and adventurers came flickering back. Steve is next to you, on his stomach with his arm around your waist. It occurs to you that you've done this before, because all you can think of is how huge his arm feels against your stomach and it used to be so much lighter. You slip your fingers under it, gingerly feeling the same skin.

Steve pulls you close in his sleep, drawing cold metal to his side. He doesn't wake. You fall asleep again, warm and comfortable.

 

* * *

 

You sleep that way every night, tangled in couch cushions.

You still wear sweats and a t-shirt but you’re comfortable with the blanket around you both. Sometimes, you get woken up with soft kisses to the jaw. Sometimes you bury yourself against him and breathe.

Stark walks in without preamble one morning and declares his disgust at the fact they’re using couch cushions when there are state of the art mattresses on expensive beds just through those doors. He leaves in a huff and Steve struggles not to look amused.

Somehow, that just makes it better.

 

* * *

 

You knew it couldn't last.

There are marks on your throat where Steve had to cut off your airway before you broke his neck.

He won’t look at you.

 

* * *

 

Steve looks tired and fragile, in a way you don’t remember since pulling him from the river half a year ago. He needs rest.

You sleep against the door in your room in forty minute bursts. You wake whimpering or screaming or biting through your lips because you’re not meant to make noise. You can’t sleep on the bed. You can’t sleep on the cushions.

You begin to ache, but then you go numb. Your eyes are lead and your tongue feels heavy. You don’t know how many nights it goes on for. You keep having shakes. Everything begins to feel far away. You see movement in every shadow. Cups get broken. Chairs destroyed. You can’t find the energy to eat, but you try to keep making meals. You feel like you’re moving even when your reflection is stock still.

Steve isn't looking at you.

You’re making a stew for him when the floor comes up you.

 

* * *

 

You wake up in a medical bed. There’s an IV, but no restraints. You don’t understand.

When Steve comes into focus, so does the rest of the world. Like on the carrier. Like on the bridge. Like in the factory. Like every time a fever cleared and you knew you weren't about to lose him. The Tower. 2014. _Fuck._

“It’s exhaustion,” A doctor explains. He knows this doctor. Steve introduced them before. His head is fuzzy. “There’s a sedative in the drip. You need to get some rest.”

He turns it up before you can say how Steve looks tired. He should be the one sleeping.

 

* * *

 

You wake up clearer, but still fuzzy. Strange how that works.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is so tentative that you wonder if you’ve woken before and not been yourself. You check Steve for marks. No new ones.

You nod once.

“You should've told me you weren't sleeping,” Steve is using the ‘I’m disappointed in you and I’m Captain America’ voice.

Fuck Captain America. This isn't for him. It's between you and Steve.

“You wouldn't even look at me, how am I meant to tell you anything?” You say, bitterness seeping into the slurred tone. You sound drunk.

Steve looks like you slapped him, “I hurt you. I didn't think you'd want--” He stops talking. A minute passes, then two. He’s struggling. Steve never admits to struggling.

“Rogers, if you’re trying to say I wouldn't understand being forced to hurt someone, I will hit you.” You raise the metal arm to illustrate and are surprised when it pinches unexpectedly.

Steve must notice. Nothing gets by that little shit. “Are you hurt?”

You look down and realize that you’re not wearing a shirt. Your chest is naked, the patchwork of scars and scar tissue visible for all to see. You want to pull up the cover, hide it from him but he’s already moved around to check the arm. He can see everything.

Fuck, he can see _everything_.

“I don’t see anything wrong. Can you move your fingers?” Steve says, distracted.

If he notices your discomfort, he says nothing.

You try and move your fingers, which is fine if a little lagged. You move it at the elbow, and notice the elbow plates are sparking enough that it's noticeable.

“That’s ridiculous,” You say, making a face. “Your shield, you, jumping out of a helicarrier but I fall funny and break it?”

Steve’s eyes are still too red, but the smile reaches them. A real smile. “You’re heavy. It doesn't surprise me.”

The pillow you throw at him certainly seems to, though.

 

* * *

 

Steve makes you promise to rest. He wants you to talk to someone.

You don’t trust anyone, so you choose rest. You try not to think of the power he has over you and that it doesn't bother you.

You rip the IV out when you wake up grasping. The doctor replaces it without comment or punishment. He offers to restrain just that arm. He’s asking you. It takes forever for you to get to grips with the fact he’s asking what you want.

You tell him no. Your hand will heal faster than your head if you start waking restrained.

 

* * *

 

“You look like your father when you do that,” turns out to be the first thing you say to Tony Stark.

You’re still stuck in a medical bed in the tower, but now Stark is fussing about the arm and you’re struggling not to strangle him. For once, it’s not because he’s running is damn mouth. You've seen so many people do what he’s doing right now over the years and watching it now makes you want to scream. You want to run. You want to rip out the line and run, half naked, down the corridors to freedom like your sister on a bath night.

“Yeah, I heard you two were buddy-buddy during the good old days,” Stark responds, without looking up.

The arm is whirring. You can see sparks and your stomach is flip flopping. You are afraid.

You give a snort of disgust to hide the animal whimpers trying to escape, “I hated him.”

There’s a twitch to the corner of Stark’s mouth, “What a coincidence. So did I.”

 

* * *

 

You begrudgingly admit the arm functions better now than it did before D.C. and thank Stark curtly. You upgrade him to dislike.

“Don’t mention it. Seriously,” He responds, waving it off.He doesn't leave. He looks at you square, “You can tell me why you didn't like my old man, though. In detail.”

“He put a target on the Steve’s back after shoving a kid with ailments as long as your arm into an experimental lab procedure,” You respond, as if this should be obvious. You don’t think you really hated Howard, but you hated him for that. “And his inventions didn't work like they were meant to.”

“Sure, sure,” Stark responded, but he seemed pleased with the answer. It's like a wolf seeing prey. He’s testing reflexes on the arm. You shrug and are pleased when the arm behaves itself. You've gotten a little attached to it.

“And he kept trying to make time with Steve’s girl.”

“Carter, huh?” That seems to renew his interest, “So you and Rogers is a new thing, then?”

Something instinctual grabs at you and it feels like fear, shame and embarrassment. All of which are ridiculous. You certainly didn't feel any of it much in the army and you and Steve lived in the neighbourhood. It was also less of a forbidden subject -- you've seen enough daytime television to know that. “You snooping?”

“I just call it like I see it,” He put up his hands, taking a step back from the arm. It was a wise move. “Was wondering if Carter was a beard, that’s all.”

You huff, “You ever met Carter?”

He gives a nod, “Yeah, terrifying lady. Great shot. Better than a boogeyman.”

“You think she would've been a beard for anyone?” You say, and it seems to give him pause. Stark shakes his head.

You have not thought about this, so you are speaking on instinct. How you relate to others is something you are struggling to comprehend, when it isn't immediately apparent of how useful you could be to them.

You continue, “Steve’s got a big heart. Big enough to love two people as much as one. I aint one for sharing, but...” You shrug, “We’d have figured it out.” For him. You wanted keep him so damn bad.

You remember Champagne. It seems important, but it's just beyond your grasp.

Stark grins, “That’s downright poetic of you, Robocop. Sharing is caring, I guess.” He starts to collect his tools together, but he still looks too damned amused.

You don’t like it. It looks like Howard again. You push your shoulders back against the bed and yawn, “The couple’a seconds refractory period would've helped.”

He looks more like a fish than Howard with his mouth gaping like that. Much more tolerable.

You might even end up liking him.

 

* * *

 

You’re able to return to the regular floor the next day. Steve made you both lunch and it’s burnt, but completely edible. It brings back memories of dinners past, but nothing specific. Just an odd sense of home.

Steve looks no more rested, but calmer. He looks like the world is only eating him from the waist down, instead of the shoulders. You want to help, but you're barely floating yourself.

“Tony keeps giving me the weirdest looks,” Steve says, between mouthfuls of pasta. He looks bemused, and the tone is needling. “You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

You wait until he goes for a drink before responding, “I told him that Howard walked in on us when you were giving me a good morning salute and screamed about being scarred for life, seeing his precious science project used like that.”

Steve’s eyes open wide, and he looks mortified, “ _Bucky._ ”

You surprise yourself by starting to laugh.

You laugh more when you find out that Steve later tried to apologise for Stark for bringing that up and explain what had happened wasn't that graphic and how grateful they were for his fathers discretion at a time that it was dangerous for them.

It was worth getting one of the couch cushions to the torso when Steve says it took him fifteen minutes to realize that he hadn't said that at all and it was fifteen minutes of the most awkward conversation he's ever encountered.

That included the double dates.

 

* * *

 

Steve stops at his bedroom door that night, “Do you want to sleep with me?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like before,” He explains, adjusting the towel from the shower. “Not...unless you want to.”

You can feel a jolt to your stomach, but nothing seems to be happening anywhere else. Another wave of frustration hits and you’re not sure what to do. You should sleep away from him. You want to nail him through the floor and hear him scream for a good reason for once.

Neither happens. Everything is still a mess. You still wake up and throw up. You still wake up at odd hours. You sweat, scream, toss, turn and sometimes wake up not knowing who you are and waiting for a mission. Or worse, trying to complete the last one.

“I might try and kill you again,” You warn, giving Steve an out. You don’t want his pity.

“I’m used to it,” Steve gives you that smile, soft and self deprecating. “I think as an assassin, you were overrated.”

You smack him upside the head on the way to bed.

 

* * *

 

You lay awake half the night kissing Steve.

You kiss into his hair and smell his shampoo, over his eyes and feel the lashes, feel his throat bob as you press your mouth into his throat and feel his whole body move when you slip down his chest. It’s wet and messy, and he’s whining happily under you. He deserves this and so much more.

You suck marks into his stomach that will be gone by morning. You scrape teeth over his thigh. You can tell he’s trying not to push you, to demand anything from you but you can hear it even without him saying it. You can hear it in the gasps. You can see it in his eyes shuttering. You don’t deserve to bear witness to this, let alone be the cause but you’ll take every last bit you can.

You press your tongue to the tip experimentally. You feel warm and flushed, but it’s nothing compared to how it feels to push him inside your mouth and feel that fucking connected to another person. It's intense in a way you didn't think you'd ever feel. You're running your hands over his thighs and hips and he’s stuttering, wriggling and trying so hard not to ask for anything.

You slip off with a wet sound and bite the inside of his thigh.

“Shit,” Steve breathes, and you can feel your cock twitch alive. It’s such a shock that you gasp, and it’s not what you need, not by a long shot but it’s a fucking start. You hollow out your cheeks for him and watch as he loses control completely, crying out louder than you have any memory of. Release is a long time coming, but it’s so damn close now.

You can relate.

He slides his hand around you, trying to help you along but you push him away. Even if you want it, even if you want him, it's not going to work and you’re not ready. Touch is still complicated. You’re already learning that to be a person, you can have to have boundaries and people should respect them.

“I want this to feel good for you,” Steve says, but he pulls his hand away dutifully.

You pull him back into your mouth without preamble and move and suck in a way that makes his toes curl and breath stutter in a way that would have scared you once. You let his cock drop out of your mouth and smile up at him, “Feels good when you react like that.”

Steve doesn't want to drop the issue, you can tell, but he’s too busy moaning out your name like it’s a lifeline when you head back to finish the job. You never want to forget how he looks right now ever again, but you know there is a chair out there that can take it all away. You know this can all be stripped from you.

You’re up half the night, but you touch or kiss or lick every goddamn inch of him to commit to memory and promise yourself that if anyone tries to take it again, you’ll rip them apart.

 

* * *

 

You sleep without vivid dreams, and wake up four hours later. Your breath is ragged, but there’s no screaming and you don’t remember anything but blood and blades.

You don’t throw up. You’re still you and Steve oversleeps, still with his arm around your stomach.

 It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

 

 


End file.
